Our story is a broken one (but we're holdin' our ground)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: She needed – well – she needed more than to just be needed.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:**This is another of the half-finished fics I have found collecting dust in my word documents since the season four finale. This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's 2nd fanfiction/fanart Challenge on tumblr - as requested by a delightful-chimichanga.

**Warnings:** Meant to fit in some point during the winter when Team Prison were going from house to house - so sometime in between the season two finale and the season three premier. This is meant to show how Carol and Daryl's relationship could have evolved over the course of the season 2-3 hiatus, through Carol's eyes. It is a psychological themed piece that does a lot of focusing on how one adapts to living during the 'end of the world' and all the baggage that comes along with it. ***Contains:** adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, dealing with the loss of a child, allusions to non-canon character suicide, light religious references and some vague season three spoilers.

**Our Story is a Broken one (but we're holdin' our ground)**

_**Chapter One**_

Sometime during mid-November, just before the first real bout of winter weather hit, they came across a house in a secluded part of the Everglades. It was about two hundred clicks outside of Douglasville and miles from the nearest highway. In other words, it seemed like their kind of perfect.

Normally, people who lived this far into the sticks were the reclusive type, the kind who'd be more likely to greet you with the barrel of a shotgun than a smile. But, if the size of the property was any indication, whoever owned it had been wealthy, _private_ but wealthy.

_Wasn't there an old saying about that? That wealth excuses oddness? Strange bedfellows or-_

She couldn't remember.

Glenn had been the one who'd found it. He'd been comparing a city map to a local one, shaking them out across the counter of a burned out convenience store on the outskirts of town, when he'd stumbled upon the discrepancy. They'd been hoping for a school or a factory, something large, safe and easily defendable. But when the others heard the words: private, mansion and secluded, the decision to go take a look was practically unanimous.

They needed this to work, even if it was only for a day or two. They'd been on the road too long. Everyone was on edge, hungry and not sleeping. They were all feeling it - the strain. Like a rusty length of cable tightened to the breaking point, each and every one of them was ready to snap.

She needed time. She needed to be alone.

She needed space to think and reorganize her thoughts.

She needed – well – she needed _more_ than to just be _needed_.

The dynamics of the world had shifted, and now, when the dust had settled, she found herself on the outside looking in. The others were adapting. Even Hershel and Beth had come to terms with it. Now, it was her turn. She needed to figure out where she fit in the grand scheme of things.

She angled her head, listening as the treads of Hershel's old truck hissed across the uneven blacktop. The dry Georgian brush whipped past, fluttering, as a gust of wind rattled the metal undercarriage. She shivered, rubbing at the gooseflesh pimpling across her arms as Rick rolled the window down another half an inch. A muscle tightened in her cheek, but she said nothing.

Beth's head lolled, resting on her shoulder as she napped, too exhausted to be self-conscious as her legs parted, splayed across her sister's lap as she snuggled close. She clamped down on a frustrated sigh. She didn't know _what _she needed. Only that she did. And that if she didn't get it, Rick wasn't going to be the only one to lay down his version of the law.

_She needed this to be over._

It took a while to find the right road, but sometime around noon they made a sharp right onto what looked, for all intents and purposes, like an old service road. It'd raised a few eyebrows, but the expression on Rick's face had been enough to make the others hold their tongues.

_A lot had changed since the farm. And not all of it for the better._

But even she couldn't deny the small sigh of relief when they passed an elegant, iron-wrought mailbox and the dirt road was quickly replaced with that of leaf-strewn blacktop and a neat line of trash bins waiting for pick-up. _Finally._

She leaned forward in her seat as they coasted up to the gates, watching from the backseat as Daryl and Glenn wrestled with the hinges. It didn't take long after that, before the main house – stately and sprawling – gradually came into view.

The place certainly painted a pretty picture. She'd give it that. It reminded her of the state gardens she and her mother had visited as a girl – drowning under a dense layer of overgrown brush and decaying flower petals - but striking nonetheless.

She couldn't help but grin as she peered out the window. It looked like something out of one of those old-fashioned Southern romances her gran used to read in the summer. On those evenings where it was still too hot to do anything more than pour yourself a cold drink before you dove head long into a whole _other_ kind of heat.

The excitement was almost tangible; the belief that this place could be something more, something _special _seemed poised on the tip of everyone's tongues. And for once, reality certainly didn't disappoint. The house was set on a gentle hill, surrounded by orchards and what she was sure had been well-kept wilderness. Even the private, forested drive had the look of once being manicured.

The air was sweet, flavorful, infused with the tartness of apple and the musk of long rotted fruit. It was well past the end of picking season, but she held out hope that there would be a least a handful of decent ones they could salvage.

They hadn't had fresh _anything _since the farm.

She'd rolled down her window as they'd passed through an open arbor – crawling with tart-seedling grapes she could practically _taste _on her tongue. She breathed it in as Carl and Beth chattered excitedly. In the driver's seat, Rick's hand tightened around the wheel, following Daryl's lead as the younger Dixon remained on point, leather vest billowing in the late autumn breeze as Hershel, Lori, Glenn and Maggie made up the rear.

_So far, so good._

No one talked about the fact that Lori and Rick didn't travel together anymore. Or that Lori slept in her tent alone more often than not. It wasn't something they discussed. Not in so many words. But they all felt it, the tension. And it had only gotten worse when Lori had started to show.

Carl didn't understand, growing angry and defiant – mirroring the emotions of his father as the days inched past. She didn't envy the situation they'd found themselves in, but she tried her best to help them all through it, hoping, perhaps when enough time had passed, that the three of them would be able to find some common ground, some forgiveness.

But unfortunately, as of right now, that didn't seem very likely.

These days she was convinced that the anger, no, the _rage_, was the only thing that kept Rick going. A lot of things had changed since the farm, and honestly there were times when the man's stare scared her, going vacant and cold as the other's treated him with kid gloves. She knew she wasn't the only one waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the next wrong turn, the next empty gas tank, the next loss.

The feeling was palpable and ugly. And it only made her miss Dale and Andrea all the more. They'd lost something integral in abandoning the farm, a piece of themselves that they'd tried to convince each other they were better off without - stronger, harder. But in truth it'd only made them that much more brittle, more liable to break then bend.

One thing, if anything, was clear. They couldn't go on this way.

* * *

From the outset, it was supposed to have been a simple raid. Maybe a night's stay if they were lucky. But unbeknownst to them, they were already on the cusp of what she was sure the media would've called one of the worst storms on record. _Winter was starting early this year. _So, by the time it occurred to them to move on, they were left with no other choice but to hunker down and ride it out.

They hadn't been ready for it. Not for the snow or the bitter cold. Perhaps they should have, but they weren't. Up until now there hadn't been time for anything else, they'd been living from day to day, meal to meal, hour to hour. It had been especially hard on Hershel and his girls. They weren't used to the feeling of empty bellies and days on the move. They weren't used to sleeping in their cars. They weren't used to being told that they couldn't talk too loud, that going on a supply run was too much of a risk or that they were grounded for the next few days because one of the gas tanks was running on empty. They weren't used to _never _feeling safe.

But, perhaps their luck _was _changing for the better, because as it turned out, they couldn't have asked for a better place to hole up.

* * *

It shouldn't have been any different from the dozens of homes they'd raided since the farm. In truth, they'd survived thus far by going house to house, strip mall to strip mall. Always one step ahead of the herds and the weather. _Always moving._ Always looking for that perfect possible future Rick still had his heart set on finding.

But from the moment she'd walked through those thick, cherry-oak doors, trailing cautiously behind Maggie - her pistol raised and at the ready, she knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

For the first time in a long time, she'd balked in the foyer.

Hell, she'd done more than just balk, she'd _stalled_.

Because this time it _was _different.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is another of the half-finished fics I have found collecting dust in my word documents since the season four finale. This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's 2nd fanfiction/fanart Challenge on tumblr - as requested by a delightful-chimichanga.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter when Team Prison were going from house to house - so sometime in between the season two finale and the season three premier. This is meant to show how Carol and Daryl's relationship could have evolved over the course of the season 2-3 hiatus through Carol's eyes. It is a psychologically themed piece that does a lot of focusing on how one adapts to living during the 'end of the world' ***Contains:** adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, dealing with the loss of a child, allusions to non-canon character suicide, light religious references and some vague season three spoilers.

**Our Story is a Broken One (but we're holdin' our ground)**

_**Chapter Two**_

She'd swallowed hard, forcing herself to take it in. Forgetting, if only for a moment, that the others were off securing the house, risking their lives to ensure the place was safe while she stood frozen in the middle of the landing. She fought the urge to bolt or maybe even throw up as Daryl started up the stairs at the end of the hall, careful and sure as Rick directed T-Dog and Glenn to check the basement before heading up after him.

_The jury was still out on what she was going to do first._

It felt like a _responsibility_, like_ penance_ as she eased herself into it. Eyes flickering from the framed photos to the child's art on the table in the foyer, arranged alongside expensive glass figurines and delicate Faberge eggs. Grade school masterpieces on display for the world to see - arranged in such a way that you could almost _smell_ the pride that only a proud parent or grandparent could rightly exude.

This wasn't just a house, it was a _home_.

A jumble of car keys, cradled in the small dish on the ledge beside the door, glinted in the low, afternoon sun. She motioned for Maggie to go ahead, waiting until she'd rounded the corner before she leaned up against the wall and closed her eyes.

A gust of wind blew in from the open door, sending papers and drapes fluttering, endearing her to the luxurious ripple as periwinkle lace whisked through the afternoon air. The stale smell of dust and mildew tickled, making the back of her throat itch as phantom footsteps echoed through the silence.

She shivered.

She couldn't deny she'd gotten stuck on it, on the _feeling_, stuck on the inherent _wrongness _of it as she made her way through the empty halls. She felt like they were being watched -_ judged_ as she ran a finger along a window ledge, letting the dust pillow through the air in her wake. She felt like a child carving their name into the trunk of an old oak. Reminding the world that they existed, that once upon a time they'd stood in that spot, unknowingly thumbing their nose at their own mortality as the world kept on spinning around them.

_It felt important somehow, to remind herself she was still alive. _

She passed an empty room; pausing, as she took in the scene. A blanket had been left unfolded across the couch facing the TV. It was almost as if whoever had been sitting there had gotten up in a hurry, upsetting a bowl of popcorn as they went. There were kernels strewn across the carpet like blood drops. They'd never come back to clean it up.

Her lips thinned. There were a hundred thousand different stories about that day, the day everything had changed. It was a pity they almost always had the same ending.

She forced herself to press on, to take it one room at a time. There was a dusty grand piano, a spotless kitchen. There were pictures of happy people, smiling faces - immortalized by a shaky hand, a split second and an electronic shutter grouped together in the same room as the indoor hot tub - drowning in a thick layer of mildew and rot.

She shook her head. She thought she'd left these kind of feelings behind a long time ago – sorting through suitcases of abandoned clothing on the highway after the CDC, taking what she wanted, what she _needed _with barely a second thought.

In many ways it was a victimless crime, the people who'd owned them were probably dead. But somehow _this_ was different, it _felt_ different. It didn't matter how long this house had been empty. _They were the intruders here._

Or perhaps she was just projecting.

Because honestly, it could have been _any_ house, in fact it looked like her house just before they'd been evacuated. Dusty dishes stacked neatly in the drying rack, the kitchen window cracked open half an inch, just enough to let in the fresh air. If she looked a few inches to her right she might even see Sophia's-

_She didn't want to think about that._

Someone coughed, dry and shallow from the floor above, choking on the dust as she idled near the stairs. Unsure if she should join them or if the adage of 'too many cooks in the kitchen' would come true if she decided to stick her nose in.

She looked down at her feet, hands curling around the banister. There were footprints in the dust, dirty prints that'd turned the rich cashmere carpet into a muddy, beige-coloured mess.

It felt like sacrilege. _Like an offense_.

She bit her lip, trying to collect herself as her ears caught the sound of conversation a few floors above. T-Dog and Carl maybe? She cocked her head. No, T-Dog and Glenn - something about firewood and blankets. Either way it was enough to break her out of her reverie.

_She had work to do._

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is another of the half-finished fics I have found collecting dust in my word documents since the season four finale. This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's 2nd fanfiction/fanart Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #6) "Close call/near death scene." - As requested by a delightful-chimichanga.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter when Team Prison were going from house to house - so sometime in between the season two finale and the season three premier. This is meant to show how Carol and Daryl's relationship could have evolved over the course of the season 2-3 hiatus through Carol's eyes. It is also a psychologically themed piece that does a lot of focusing on how one deals with adapting to living during the 'end of the world' ***Contains:** adult language, adult content, mild sexual content, emotional baggage, dealing with the loss of a child, allusions to non-canon character suicide, light religious references and some vague season three spoilers.

**Our Story is a Broken One (but we're holdin' our ground)**

_**Chapter Three**_

Despite her best efforts, the feeling continued. She tried to shore herself up, to just carry on like nothing was wrong. Like this _wasn't _a place entrenched in several decades worth of memories as they rifled unconcernedly through kitchen cupboards and bedroom drawers.

But it didn't work.

For the first time in a long time, she felt oddly alone. No one else seemed to feel the same way. No one else was hesitating as they examined dusty clothing or tossed the contents of a cupboard into duffel bags waiting below. No one seemed to notice – either that or somewhere along the line they'd stopped caring. She supposed that was what surviving – what barely holding on - did to a person.

The little things, the moral things, somehow ceased to matter.

She bit her tongue for their sake. They'd been through too much already. After all, who did it hurt? Who _could _it hurt? Perhaps she was just kidding herself; perhaps this sort of change was inevitable. Perhaps it was simply human nature, the mindset of the survivor. _The forager._

Either way, they didn't deserve her censure.

So she said nothing.

And damn all her high minded morality straight to hell if she didn't feel like the world's biggest hypocrite when she found herself thumbing through a line of expensive blouses a few hours later, rubbing the fine material in between her thumb and forefinger before she shrugged and slipped a dark navy silk off the hanger.

She ended up taking every last one.

* * *

Despite a vigorous search, the house was clear, _safe_. Not only that, but it was virtually_ untouched_. There was a small cat bed in the living room, but the creaking kitty door and the unused litter box in the laundry room was enough to assume that the feline in question had long since moved on.

In fact, the only sign that there'd even been people living there when the infection had spread was an unlatched side door and a trail of bloody smudges that spanned from the kitchen to the back door. There were a few strands of reddish-grey hair stuck in the bent metal frame and a trail of rusty-red that skirted the pool and headed off in the direction of the orchards that sprawled across the majority of the property. And while the bloody footprints had faded in the intervening year; the blue tiles still showcased every arch, every crease, dip and smudge that marked where a person had died and a _thing _had risen up in their place.

It wasn't until she'd made it upstairs that she realized what'd happened here.

That was where Daryl found her in the end, in the main bedroom, paused over a still of someone's last moments. Stalled and breathing in the silence. She didn't know how long it'd been since she'd discovered it, but she did know how it felt when he cleared his throat. Irritation and embarrassment rose, uncharacteristic, as the atmosphere around her gradually changed. Losing its tranquility, it's _stillness _as he idled – uncertain on the very edge of her vision.

The room was choked with dust, heady with the musk of stale air and old death. But in spite of that, the scent of Chanel number five and Cherokee Red cigars still permeated the room like a second skin. It added an unexpected layer to the scene in front of her, something that made her soul stutter.

She shook her head. The epiphany was unwanted.

Across the room, Daryl's expression twisted, looking like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite make the words leave his lips. But for once, she wasn't paying attention.

Was this what surviving was about? About constantly having to acknowledge that they had some privileged place in the world just because they'd survived? Because they were one of the 'lucky' ones? Was this survivor's guilt or just exhaustion? Grief? Depression? Anger?

Honestly, she didn't know anymore.

The moment grew stale, yet neither of them said anything when he entered, he just stood there, observing. His crossbow was slung over his shoulder, casual and off-center as he loomed in the threshold. And for reasons beyond her, his entire presence was grating.

_Unwelcome_.

There were notes taped to the bedroom door. Unsteady heart felt messages that teased through the air whenever you walked by, faded and brittle after a year in the sunlight. They were notes to grown children, dated a month after the CDC came clean and informed the nation about the virus spreading across the continental US like wildfire. She knew because she'd already read them, unable to stop herself from devouring both sheets of paper from front to back. Her gorge rose as they urged sons and daughters to not open the door, to just turn around and leave. To go with God and live – live for as long as they could.

It was all there, written in an unsteady, yet meticulous hand. They talked about how proud they were, about how much they loved them. They told their children where the spare key for the gun locker was, instructing them to take their truck and head out on the road. To make something of the time they had left. There'd been more, but she'd forced herself to stop.

It was too much, too_ personal_.

It wasn't meant for them. _None of it was_.

Daryl made an ugly sound in the back of his throat, flicking the pages with a dismissive air as he pushed past. His spine was rigid, hackles up as he made a circuit around the room.

His footsteps were heavy, _angry._

It reminded her of the quarry.

She opened her mouth to say something, before thinking better of it. Frustration and anger teased the hairs on her arms, tingling like goose bumps as she forced herself not to acknowledge him. She didn't know why she felt this way. But not knowing_ didn't_ make the feeling any less valid.

Instead, she looked towards the bed.

The sheets were tangled. _Fitful_.

They'd planned it out. That much was certain. They'd wanted to go out their own way -_together. _The scene had a familiarity to it; almost as if it was something she'd seen in a movie or read about on the news. She couldn't deny that it certainly painted quite the picture, what with the empty pill bottles and the uncorked bottle, stained with red-wine dribbles on the bed-side table.

_What was it Jenner had said?_

They'd opted out.

Only, they'd been robbed of even that, of the right to die together, on their own terms.

Because the bed was _empty_ and the truck they'd written of, the one they'd left gassed up and ready for their children was still parked in the garage, the bright, waxy sheen muted under a thick layer of dust.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The final chapter should be up on Sunday.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is another of the half-finished fics I have found collecting dust in my word documents since the season four finale. This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's 2nd fanfiction/fanart Challenge on tumblr requested by a delightful-chimichanga.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter when Team Prison were going from house to house before season three - so sometime in between the season two finale and the season three premier. This is meant to show how Carol and Daryl's relationship could have evolved over the course of the season 2-3 hiatus.** ***Contains: adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, dealing with the loss of a child, allusions to non-canon character suicide, light religious references and some vague season three spoilers.

**Our Story is a Broken One (but we're holdin' our ground)**

_**Chapter Four**_

She expelled a long, pent up breath as she got to her feet. Unable to help it when her molars ground together, trying to bury the rush of claustrophobia - the room suddenly feeling a bit too crowded as Daryl haunted the back corner. Distant, yet close all the same.

Dust motes filtered through the air, tangling with the curtains and skimming across her skin until she couldn't help but breathe it in. It was almost overwhelming – choking – muting the sound as footsteps clattered down the opposite hall.

She let her fingers trail through the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on one of the dressers, leaving twin lines in the clear mahogany polish as the flawless finish shone brightly in the high afternoon sun.

The back of her throat tickled.

Sophia had called it star stuff. Delighting in the way the motes would catch the light as she twirled around in her pjs, the sunlight reflecting through the bedroom blinds until it looked like the two of them were in a snow globe. She had no idea where Sophia had picked up the name, but she'd never once told her different. 'Star stuff' had always seemed like a better description for a day's worth of dusting in her mind anyway.

She supposed that was what children did, they reminded you of the little things, the _good _things, the things that stuck with you. _The things that actually mattered. _

She was barely aware of the movement when her fingers fanned out; caressing the odd mote and spark of light with a reverence she hadn't felt since the last time she'd seen Sophia smiling. Her gut twisted, choking on a bitter tangle of darkness as pain lanced through her insides – it was only an echo, but it still had the strength to wound.

Mouth dry, she forced a swallow. _Perhaps that was the reason so few of them made it. There was precious little that was good these days. _The pain in her gut _hitched _– enough to merit resting her hand against it – as she sucked in a breath and tried to remember how to breathe.

"Shudda' known better. Chuggin' a bottle of pills wasn't gunna do it," Daryl finally grunted, breaking the silence dismissively. His derision clear when he flicked the rim of one of the wine glasses, letting the sound ring out in the dusty air as something inside her pulled tight with discomfort.

That was when it happened.

"They didn't know," she snapped, angry for some reason she couldn't quite put a name to as she stared at the empty glasses on the side table. There was a thin powder coating sun-baked along the rim as thrown back sheets and a broken bottle – a Merlot - marked where they'd eventually gotten back up again.

It felt right to defend them –_ just_. They hadn't known you _didn't_ have to be bitten, that the virus didn't work the way they'd thought – the way they'd been told in the beginning. It'd been all over the news. _Don't get bitten. Don't get scratched. If you do, you die._ Those had been the rules.

"They just wanted to be together," she continued, flashing back to the soft smiles that haunted the photographs in the hall. Memories reflecting back from faded Polaroids and post-it love notes that'd been tacked to the message board by the phone.

The silence was difficult, stuttered – _strained._

The sense of loss was so present here; it was tangible and close, suffocating her from the inside out as she drew in a shuddering breath and then another. Refusing to even so much as_ look_ in his direction for fear she'd lose her nerve, having to remind herself, not for the first time, that she had a _right _to voice her own opinion.

"There's nothing wrong with that," she murmured, hands clasped behind her as she leaned against the window frame, gazing determinedly out into the orchard below as her nails sunk deep into the meat of her palms - trapped between regret and vindication as he shifted behind her. _She could practically taste his discomfort._

She wasn't sure what it meant when Daryl didn't say a word.

But when she turned back around, she realized why. Because instead of replying, he just fixed her with this look, a look that tried to tell the world that he _wasn't _wounded. That tried to express that her words_ hadn't_ stung, _hadn't_ confused him in ways he didn't know how to express.

She reckoned many women, young and old alike, had been taken in by that subtle vulnerability. By a man who was all but _sweating _with chaffing restraint and restless confusion as he side-eyed her through his fringe, looking, for all intents and purposes, like a kicked puppy before he wrenched his eyes away. It made her feel about ten times worse than she actually did as his lips firmed into a hard line, practically radiating twin points of anger and confusion as he shouldered his crossbow and turned away.

She sighed as he stalked out. Head ducked into his chin, shoulders up, and expression guarded. With everything from the measure of his steps to the hunch of his back exuding an expression that screamed stand-offishness and near homicide all in one simmering temper.

He'd closed himself this time, she only had herself to blame.

She wasn't sure what made her say it. But some part of her had rebelled at his briskness, at his casual dismissal of what had clearly been a decision made by two people who'd loved each other very much. They'd chosen to die together, gently and on their own terms.

She felt like regardless of the fact that it had been futile, they needed to respect the meaning behind it. Only Daryl didn't. She wasn't sure what he saw when he'd taken it in, but it certainly wasn't respect. Derision maybe, or worse, amusement?

The thing was that she wasn't sure if he'd meant it or not. She wanted to say he didn't but deep down she knew better. Daryl was damaged and with that came certain quirks, certain opinions and reactions to certain situations. She knew that. More often than not, he was all harsh bluster and barely contained temper. But at the end of the day, it was okay, because that was uniquely him and she wouldn't have had him any other way.

His little idiosyncrasies and harsh opinions had never really bothered her, at least not until now. She'd always understood where they'd come from. But right now, in this place, surrounded by all this- she hadn't been able to help herself. She hadn't been able to stop herself from snarking right back, her voice uncharacteristically hard – and perhaps just as uncompromising as his own.

Perhaps he was rubbing off on her.

She shook her head. She'd regretted the words as soon as they'd left her lips. She didn't regret the meaning behind them. Only that she'd bothered to voice them at all. She rested her head in her hands, not relishing how the emotion weighed on her conscience.

Somehow, without even realizing it, she'd messed it all up.

She hadn't meant to drive him off.

They were all tired. Tired, exhausted, hungry, cold and fed up with running. So maybe it was really because she hadn't eaten more than one meal a day since longer than she could remember or maybe it was because the last week they'd only managed a handful of hours a night. Or maybe it was because after all those years of silence, all those years under Ed's thumb, all those moments where she'd been forced to hold her tongue, she was finally beginning to use her voice.

Only now she was still struggling with the whole filter part.

She sighed, sinking back into the chair beside the bed, letting her fingers trail down the rumpled fabric of a silk nightie thrown over the side. She rubbed her fingers down the dusty softness. Only half-listening to the distant sound of Glenn, Maggie, Beth, and Lori tromping through the attic above her head, shaking the occasional cloud of dust loose from the ceiling fan as they tossed the odd box or bag down from the crawl space.

It was a familiar thing, the search for something better to wear than clothing so dirt encrusted it was only a handful of days away from walking away on its own. Ripe was an understatement when it came to personal hygiene these days. Make no mistake.

But to be honest, she was only really listening for the tread of Daryl's boots stomping down the stairs towards the back door.

She didn't know what she was doing as far as the man was concerned. But at the same time, she couldn't find it in her to stop. Not even for both their sakes. They were both far too gone for that.

* * *

Later that night they sat down to dinner for the first time since the farm, using the large dining room table with all its finery. She had Carl mucking about, lighting candles on fancy stands, whereas Lori and Hershel had already set about unpacking the dusty silverware and best china of their own accord - determined to make the evening special.

Beth had called it a dinner party, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she'd darted back and forth from the kitchen, ferrying out dishes and setting the table. Rick sat at the head, Daryl on the opposite end, the one closest to the window, which he used by periodically tipping back his chair and peering out into the gloom.

It was only when everyone was seated and she emerged from the kitchen, the last dish – canned peas and garlic shoots - that she realized the table was full. There was a moment of awkward shuffling as the others tried to find space. But it was Daryl who finally broke it. One of his knees skidded across the edge of the table as he grunted and snagged the back of one of the spare chairs - scooting over to make room for two.

It was a tight fit and they bumped elbows more than anything.

But she couldn't deny that it felt a whole lot like a peace offering.

She smiled for what felt like the first time in months.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.


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